


like a river to a stream

by xylodemon



Series: deancas codas: season fifteen [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 11:54:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20994389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: Belphegor snorts. "C'mon." He tips his head back a little, enough to flash the scorch marks under his sunglasses. "I told you, I read the papers. You guys are legendary, with all the fighting and brainwashing and rebelling." He makes a slow, thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. "I heard youreallythrew a tantrum when Lucifer was possessing him."





	like a river to a stream

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 15x01; unbeta'd like an unbeta'd thing.
> 
> [Tumblr post](https://xylodemon.tumblr.com/post/188288396599/spn-fic-like-a-river-to-a-stream-deancas-15k).

"Nice digs," Belphegor says, dragging a hand down the banister. "I mean, it's not Hell or anything, but—" He glances around the war room and whistles through his teeth. "Wow."

Dean shoulders past him and tosses his bag on the map table. Now that his adrenaline's crashing, he—fuck. _Fuck_.

"I don’t know what I expected," Belphegor continues. The twist to his mouth is so _Jack_ that Dean feels it right between the ribs. "I always thought hunters lived in weird, smelly vans. But, hey—" He spreads his hands like a gameshow host. "You guys are the Winchesters, am I right?"

Dean strips off his jacket and heads for the scotch.

Belphegor just follows him into the library. He says, "Not that I know anything about living spaces. When I was human, we'd just figured out how to use caves as shelter."

Dean knocks his shot back so fast that scotch slops down his chin. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve and barks, "Shut up, alright? Just—sit down." He kicks the closest chair away from the table and pours himself another drink. "Sit your ass down and—"

"Shut up?"

"Yeah."

The second shot goes down rough, feels like glass at the back of Dean's throat. He coughs a couple times and rubs his hand over his face.

"Is it weird?" Belphegor asks. "It's gotta be weird, right? Looking at me and seeing your kid."

"He, uh—he wasn't—" Dean bites the inside of his cheek so he doesn't grab the bottle again. He hasn't eaten much in the last forty-eight hours; another shot will just put his gut on a slow boil. "I ain't talking about this."

"Oh, yeah, that's right. You're one of those."

"I—what? What's that supposed to mean?"

Belphegor says, "Nothing," and props one foot on the chair in front of him. "You know, humans sucked at communication back in my day too. Of course, we weren't really sure how language worked back then, so—"

"Hey," Dean snaps. A tension headache is squeezing the base of his skull. "What happened to you shutting the fuck up?"

"Hmmm, no. Not really feeling it."

"Well, start feeling it."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll change my mind about Cas stabbing you in the throat."

Cas picks that moment to trudge down the garage stairs. His tie is crooked, and Sam's bag is slung over his shoulder. He stalks past Dean and Belphegor without so much as a glance.

Belphegor watches Cas go with a smile tugging his mouth. Then: "Wow. I guess there really is trouble in paradise."

"In—what? What the hell are you talking about?"

"You and your angel boyfriend."

An ache spreads underneath Dean's ribs. He grunts, "We—it ain't like that," and reaches for the scotch.

Belphegor snorts. "C'mon." He tips his head back a little, enough to flash the scorch marks under his sunglasses. "I told you, I read the papers. You guys are legendary, with all the fighting and brainwashing and rebelling." He makes a slow, thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. "I heard you _really_ threw a tantrum when Lucifer was possessing him."

Dean drops the scotch bottle and whips his angel blade out of his pocket. "You know what? I've changed my mind." He walks around the table, glass crunching under his boots. "_I'm_ gonna stab you in the throat."

"Hey," Sam says, looking tired and pale as he walks down the garage stairs. His mouth is pinched like he lied about how much his bullet wound is hurting him. "What's going on?"

Belphegor says, "Nothing," and holds up his hands. "Just two friends, having a conversation."

"Good." Sam grabs the chair Belphegor's using as a footrest, yanks it clear so he can sit on it. "Since you feel like talking, tell me about that spell you used to trap the ghosts."

"Sammy," Dean warns. He still has glass under his boots. Everything smells like scotch. "You oughta be resting."

Sam just waves him off. "Yeah, in a minute."

Sighing, Dean heads for his room.

+

Dean's halfway down the hall when Cas comes out of Sam's room. They stare at each other for a long, tense moment; a wall sconce hums behind Cas' shoulder, a loose tile whines as Dean shifts his weight. Cas' hair is a wreck, and he has a thin smudge of dirt below his ear. Dean opens his mouth but the words stick in the back of his throat.

Eventually, he gives up. He grunts, "Night, Cas," and opens his door.

Cas catches his sleeve. "Dean, wait."

"Yeah?"

"Earlier, you asked if I was okay." After a pause, Cas heaves out a sigh. "I'm… not. Letting a demon inhabit Jack's body is—"

"Shitty. Yeah, I know." Dean leans his shoulder against the door jamb and scrubs a hand through his hair. "But this ghost thing—it's big. We need all the help we can get."

"Doesn't it bother you?" Cas asks roughly. "To watch an abomination walk around in Jack's skin?"

"Yeah, it bothers me. But there's nothing I can do about it right now. Not when he might know something that can fix this."

"What if it was me?" Cas demands. A muscle starts ticcing in his jaw. "Would you allow a demon to possess my corpse just because you found it expedient?"

"What—?" Dean jerks back a little. He thinks of Lucifer puppeting Cas' body around the bunker, of him twisting Cas' face into a smirk and saying Dean's name with Cas' voice. "No. No way. You—I wouldn't—"

"Yet it's tolerable when it's Jack?" Cas' voice cracks a little, feels brittle around the edges. "Did you care about him at all?"

"Yeah, I did," Dean barks. "I cared about him a lot. And then he fucking killed my mother."

"Dean—"

"And here's the best part," Dean continues, grief and anger churning in his gut. "I was right. I said he was dangerous from the very beginning. But I let you and Sam tell me we could keep him good. I let _him_ tell me we could keep him good. And then—" he cuts off and takes a deep, shaky breath. "And then he—_fuck_."

"Dean," Cas says again. He reaches up and rests his hand on Dean's shoulder. "Your mother… Jack was soulless when he killed her."

"Yeah, well. That doesn't make her any less dead."

"He sacrificed that soul to save us from Michael." Cas studies Dean for a few seconds before continuing, "You forgave Sam for the things he did while he was soulless."

Dean takes another deep breath. "He didn't kill our mother."

"What if he had? Would you have forgiven him?"

"I—I don't know," Dean mutters, because he doesn't. He isn't sure if he knows anything about himself anymore. "That woulda been up to Chuck, I guess. I mean, it turns out he's been jerking us around our whole lives. So I don't know. I don't know if _I_ sold my soul for Sam, or if _he_ did. I don't know if _I_ took the Mark of Cain, or if _he_ did. I don't know if this—" he waves a hand between them "—if this is—if we—"

"If we what?"

"You know exactly what."

Cas' eyes widen slightly; they've never talked about it. They've just let the tension build and build until Dean can hardly be in the same room with Cas without wanting to touch him, wanting to kiss him, wanting—just _wanting_. But now—fuck.

"Dean," Cas says, soft. He slides his hand from Dean's shoulder to the curve of Dean's neck. His thumb brushes Dean's throat, and Dean closes his eyes. "It's us."

"You can't know that," Dean insists. Cas is standing too close, too close. "What if Chuck just wanted a soap opera?"

After a pause, Cas brings his other hand up to Dean's hip. "I choose to believe it's us. Right now, I'm also choosing to kiss you."

"Okay," Dean says. He—fuck. He wants it so badly. "Okay."

Cas leans in slow, runs his thumb across Dean's jaw before slotting their mouths together. Dean can't help the noise he makes, or the way his hands fist in the front of Cas' trenchcoat. He pulls Cas closer, catches Cas' lower lip between his teeth. A feeling builds in his chest, something hot and sweet and bright, and that—yeah. That's him. There's no way it isn't real.

When they finally ease apart, Dean says, "Hey. I'm sorry about Jack. I know you cared about him."

"I made a promise to his mother," Cas says quietly.

Dean says, "I know," and presses his mouth to Cas' temple. "Promises are hard to keep in this line of work. And they're hard to keep when someone else is pulling the strings." He slides his hand down to the dip of Cas' spine. "And it wasn't your fault. That was all Chuck."

"Yes, I know. But I—that doesn't make it easier."

Dean knows it doesn't; he's been there too many times. So he kisses Cas' temple again and says, "You know, if Sam's right and Chuck's gone, we're making our own choices from now on."

"What are you going to do?"

"Well, I haven't slept in about three days, and I spent most of today fighting weird zombies. I think I'm gonna choose to go to bed."

Cas smiles. "I think I'll choose to come with you."


End file.
